


can't lose

by LadyDorian



Category: Rick and Morty
Genre: Angst, Bodily Fluids, Ficlet, M/M, Self-Hatred, Suicide Attempt, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-19
Updated: 2016-03-19
Packaged: 2018-05-27 14:11:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6287749
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyDorian/pseuds/LadyDorian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Morty finds Rick in the midst of a suicide attempt.</p>
            </blockquote>





	can't lose

**Author's Note:**

> Playing "Do You Feel It" while reading this will only make it worse.

By the time Morty finds him, he’s already puked twice. It’s tinged with red and purple, brown flecks of something, he—

_doesn’t care_

—he can’t quite figure what, congealing into pudding on the garage floor. It’s in his pores, up his nose, stubbornly sticky when Morty grasps his shoulder and turns him onto his—

_bed of loneliness_

—his back. He’s screaming at him, lips flailing, words spread into static as they filter through the mess plugging his ears: Bile and cotton balls, worms and bad ideas, a general concoction of shit. Rick thinks to reach up and hit him, tell him to fucking can it before the whole house hears, but—

_he’s empty_

—but nobody’s home, no one has been for the past hour or day or month that he’s been lying there. Time has always been pointless, and what’s left of his he could ball up in his fist, use it to knock this stupid kid flat on his ass, if only his muscles weren’t so stiff. He’s sweating, shivering, coughing too much to fight—

_his helplessness_

—fight the hands on his chest, the spittle pricking his face. There are tears now, but he’s not sure _whose_ , not when the world is so blurry and—

_endlessly disappointing_

—and the pain far too mild for him to truly appreciate it. If he’d wanted—

_someone to save him_

—wanted the quick and dirty route, the answer would have been as simple as pulling a trigger or pressing a button. Eight atomizers, three disintegrators, and roughly twenty-nine ray guns at his disposal, but it was the Supplaxian poison with its promise of a slow, torturous death, that had enticed him in the end. Hardly worth the 99 Dex, though. He’s—

_complete scum, deserving of much worse_

—he’s had VD more unpleasant than this, and the fact that his brain can still process such a lame joke just proves his organs aren’t liquefying as painfully as they should. He’s—

_a colossal fuck-up_

—he’s shuffling away too quickly, fading with each blink. Can’t speak, can't laugh, doesn’t even realize Morty’s gone until his face juts back into his frame of vision, and then there’s water pouring into his mouth and _Jesus-fucking-Christ now_ **_that’s_ ** _excruciating_. _What the fuck, Morty? You can't just wash away intergalactic poison._ He’d hoped—

_he'd forget by now_

—hoped the moron would have learned at least that much during their short life together. _Fuck it_ , he can take it as a parting gift for all he cares. His throat burns like hell, insults bubbling out in a geyser of watery vomit: Nothing to be heard, nothing to be remembered, nothing worth fighting for. And yet, for some incomprehensible reason, Morty dives down and presses their lips together. Rick coughs and sputters. _Oh, that’s gross, Morty. You fucking barf-loving shitstain_. Only after he notices the pressure in his chest does he realize that Morty isn’t really kissing him; he’s—

_stupidly holding on_

—he’s _breathing_ for him, trying to keep him alive. He feels his cock swell against his fly, and it’s sick and twisted but it doesn’t stop him from shoving his tongue into Morty’s mouth, wasting the rest of his strength to lick along his teeth, his gums. He doesn’t know why he does it, but he thinks—

_he might regret_

—thinks that must be why Morty is shaking and slapping him now, fingers clutching the lapels of his coat, hands bearing down like tiny anvils, a shriek of _“DON’T LEAVE ME, RICK!”_ enough to pierce the wall, another kiss on his cheek set to bring it all to ruin. As if shit weren’t complicated enough. He doesn’t—

_want to regret_

—doesn’t pause to think before mouthing _“Pocket,”_ and by some stroke of fortune Morty catches it, because his eyes widen and his hands scrabble at the front of him, furiously searching every nook and cranny. Because as hopeless as things may seem, he’s—

_too much of a coward_

—he’s too foolish to give up. There’s movement at his right, then left, and then Morty is fumbling with the corked lids of the three vials, tipping them one by one into his mouth and gently squeezing below his jaw, encouraging him to swallow. Within seconds, the pinhole in his throat widens to a nailhead, his breathing shallow but he’s—

_still fucking alive_

—he's still alive. Morty's sobbing into his shirt; he feels the dampness, the sniffling, long before the whispers reach him: "Please—”

_don't do this_

“—Please, Rick, I can’t—”

_deal with this_

“—can’t lose you, Rick.”

_But he’s already lost_

Rick breathes deeper, exhales a groan—muscles, cells, atoms twitching in residual anguish. As time and space begin to settle, he manages to hook two fingers into the fabric of Morty’s shirt, clawing his way upwards to drape his arm over the boy’s shoulders, their shared cosmos quaking with pathetic desperation. He wants—

_permanence, an escape_

—wants—

_it all to end, wants something that will never end_

—wants the one thing he can never have _,_ but still he latches on with every last ounce of himself, because—

_he’s filth_

—because—

_he deserves the worst_

—because nothing hurts more than being unable to let go.

**Author's Note:**

> I love you guys. Thank you for all the kind words and support.


End file.
